


Unrecognizable

by FictionPenned



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Other, Time Travel For Trolling and Petty Revenge, Time traveling characters encounter each other out of order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: Like most Time Lords, the Master is not fond of traveling via vortex manipulator.It is cheap and disposable technology — far from the elegance of the living structures of a TARDIS or the insurmountable pressure of a well-harnessed warp drive — and he is unaccustomed to both its controls and its crude inexactitudes. Perhaps if the Master had somehow found himself in possession of a newer version, then the misfires would be less of a problem, but alas, 19th century Earth does not have a particularly thriving time travel black market. Indeed, the Master had to steal this particular vortex manipulator off of a vodka-soaked time agent in Moscow.The poor fellow still probably hasn’t sobered up enough to notice its absence.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33
Collections: Past Imperfect Future Unknown 2020





	Unrecognizable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AstroGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/gifts).



Like most Time Lords, the Master is not fond of traveling via vortex manipulator.

It is cheap and disposable technology — far from the elegance of the living structures of a TARDIS or the insurmountable pressure of a well-harnessed warp drive — and he is unaccustomed to both its controls and its crude inexactitudes. Perhaps if the Master had somehow found himself in possession of a newer version, then the misfires would be less of a problem, but alas, 19th century Earth does not have a particularly thriving time travel black market. Indeed, the Master had to steal this particular vortex manipulator off of a vodka-soaked time agent in Moscow.

The poor fellow _still_ probably hasn’t sobered up enough to notice its absence.

Not that the Master particularly cares about the suffering of a random stranger. Indeed, he had been half-tempted to kill him on a whim, but he is trying to lay low. Vortex manipulators are trackable, and he does not want the Doctor locking onto his little path through space and time until he is ready, and nothing draws her attention quite like murdering a handful of innocents.

She has always been _dreadfully_ predictable that way.

It takes him several tries to land at his intended destinations, and on one day when the device is being especially irritating, he takes a detour to an interstellar marketplace in the 26th century to try to get it patched up. He knows a dealer there who is willing to do repairs in exchange for promises of power and quicksilver whispers of praise, and arrangement that the Master has accepted many times throughout the millennia.

He rarely follows through on granting power — influence is for him and him alone — but the whispers are easy.

Pleasurable, even.

He’s always had a skilled and willing tongue.

After the bargain is struck and finished, the Master, with a newly repaired vortex manipulator strapped around his wrist, makes his way out of the tent and into the press of the crowds. There are people from across this side of the galaxy here — nomads and merchants and smugglers and independent contractors hustling for a good price on their services. It is not the sort of place that he enjoys spending time in. There are too many people here. Too many conflicting opinions. Too many opportunities to get caught. He prefers places that operate according to a more stable and predictable status quo, especially when he is at the top.

The Master glances down at his wrist as he programs in his next set of coordinates. Given the dim ambient light of this planet’s nearly perpetual dusk, it is a surprisingly difficult task. Indeed, it requires so much of his attention that he does not see the whirling dervish of blonde hair and grey coattails approach, nor does he have time to dodge her before she crashes into him.

“My bad! Sorry. In a bit of a rush, me. Sometimes the feet just go and the rest of me follows.”

A shiver runs through him.

His tongue grows dry.

He is not supposed to see the Doctor. Not yet.

The stage isn’t set for her appearance.

The Master keeps his chin down as his eyes flick upwards, trying to keep his face veiled mostly in shadow as he says, “It’s no trouble.”

She shoves her hands in her pockets, leaning forward in the petulant way that she always does when her interest is piqued. It is a habit that has chased her ever since they were children on Gallifrey, bathed in the light of two suns.

Twin hearts race in his chest.

He tries his best not to look at her, but she has a habit of drawing his attention. She possesses a natural charisma that he envies and loathes in equal measure. Despite his best efforts, their gazes meet in the dimly lit space between them. The Doctor’s eyes are narrowed with intense curiosity, but they are not overflowing with the anger and resentment that defined their last encounter. She clearly has not met him in this face yet, except perhaps as O, who she would never expect to see someplace like this. Though her ignorance is a blessing given his current agenda, he cannot help a deeper, darker part of himself from feeling disappointed by it.

After all, he has always craved her recognition.

“You look awfully familiar,” the Doctor muses — pink tongue pushing against the back of her teeth as she thinks. The Master can practically see the gears turning in that busy head of hers. “Say — we didn’t meet on a Mars-Venus cruise, did we? I had a nasty little brush with a group of Ice Warriors on Deck 3. Embarrassing, really. For them, not for me. I don’t do embarrassment.”

The Master runs his tongue over his lips. “I’m not one for cruises. I prefer more efficient travel.”

The Doctor leans even further forward, rolling onto the very tips of her toes as she taps his vortex manipular and scrunches her nose. “Is this what passes for efficient these days?”

The Master is torn between stepping backward, away from her, and disappearing into the crowd, but he is rooted to the spot of packed earth beneath his feet. There is something about the smell of her, the feel of her, the knowledge that he could exploit his knowledge and her lack of it to gain temporary power over her that is incredibly alluring.

But in exercising that power now, he would ruin his reveal later.

And that was an enormously satisfying bit of work, even if she did manage to destroy it all in the end.

After a long moment, the Master manages to find his tongue and issue a brusque reply, “It was cheap.”

The Doctor merely hums and shoves her hand back into her pockets, rooting around as she nosily reads his coordinates upside-down. The Master makes no effort to hide them. They don’t mean anything to her. Not yet.

“What are you doing in Sheffield? I have a couple friends who live there. Different time, of course. Much later, but odd coincidence that you’re going there of all places,” she says as she pulls her sonic screwdriver free from her coat.

It takes every ounce of the Master’s self-control not to roll his eyes. He hates that tool more than words can describe. It is an embarrassing little embarrassment, truly. Hardly worthy of a Time Lord, but of course, she isn’t one. She never was.

The thought tugs at a small muscle in his jaw as his face tightens.

He wants to leave.

He wants to hurt her.

The way that she so often hurts him.

“I have a package to deliver,” he says. It is not entirely untrue. He plans to bury it somewhere where Yasmin Khan will find it later. It’s the first domino in a long series — a wild goose chase set to end in fiery rage and bated breath and warring attentions.

The Doctor’s eyes flick up towards his again — green stare boring into his own as her eyebrows raise. “You a courier?”

The Master stands a little bit straighter, burns a little bit brighter. “Sometimes.”

He can tell that she is suspicious, but he knows that she does not have enough pieces to put the puzzle together. By the time she does, it will be too late.

They remain locked in each other’s gravity for a long moment, completely still as the rest of the market moves around them in a colorful, jostling blur.

The Doctor breaks the contact first, buzzing her silly little device over the vortex manipulator without bothering to ask for permission first.

“What are you doing?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer until she’s done and the sonic screwdriver is once again stowed away in the billowing folds of her coat. “Bit of reconfiguration. This model has a tendency to slip. Fixed it right up for you. Easy-peasy.”

A grin slips past the Master’s guard. _Oh_ , he loves it when she makes his job easier. However, he dares not linger her overlong. It would not do to squander the gift that she has just unknowingly offered to him.  
  
“Thank you. I do have to go, though. It was a pleasure meeting you, my dear…” He trails off, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

She obliges without hesitation. “Doctor.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, my dear Doctor.”

By the time she has opened her mouth to return the question, he has punched a button and disappeared across time and space.

He breathes in the fresh air of pre-industrial England when he exists the vortex, feeling a tell-tale tingle of rage and nostalgia and betrayal echo through his veins. He harnesses that energy with a new sense of purpose, hands balling into fists and lips pursing into a tight line.

He has newfound motivation, and he is ready to get this show on the road.

Just a couple more stops, and then he will strike.

And she’ll have no idea what hit her.


End file.
